


L'Exterminateur

by Lynse



Category: Miraculous Ladybug, Ratatouille (2007)
Genre: Akumatized!Chef Skinner, Crossover, Gen, One Shot, aka L'Exterminateur, and they're both set in Paris so I just had to, because of course Skinner would get akumatized
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 11:08:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11160636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynse/pseuds/Lynse
Summary: It was business as usual atLa Ratatouille…until Chat Noir and Ladybug crashed onto the scene in a fight with L’Exterminateur.





	L'Exterminateur

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t seen this crossover yet, but it seemed too perfect to resist. (I’m just going to conveniently ignore the fact that I have had this idea for over a year and still didn’t entirely expect to be posting it now.) Set post-movie for _Ratatouille_. Standard disclaimers apply.

“Not a word of a lie,” Remy promised as he set down _le aperitif_ —featuring bread, cheese, and mushrooms—on the table. The rats occupying said table were from a colony in the country, one not unlike his had once been. It was rare for them to get visitors outside of the Parisian colonies, but everyone always wanted to hear Remy’s story, and they wanted to hear it from Remy himself.

The rats at his part of the restaurant, just outside and above _La Ratatouille_ , didn’t pay like the customers below, of course. They paid in news, stories, or little pieces of wisdom that meant his little restaurant was as popular for the conversation as it was for the food. This table had asked to hear his story and would tell their own before leaving; the next table had been here before and knew Remy’s story and—though repetitions were always requested—had this time asked about Paris’s heroes.

Remy knew little of them, except that one day strange things had begun happening and these two heroes had appeared to stop the villains terrorizing the city. He got most of his information from Linguini, who fawned over them and all the good they were doing, in contrast to Colette, who believed the two heroes were dealing with the symptoms and not the problem, whatever that problem was. She seemed to think they had a better idea than anyone else, that they knew how this Hawk Moth person operated, and she really didn’t like the idea that anyone could be transformed into a villain to terrorize her home.

Remy was fairly certain that no one liked that idea, but Colette managed to take it to a new level. It unsettled her, and that made her angry enough to fight. Linguini was running out of things to say to convince her to stay away from the more publicized attacks and, as he’d tried telling her last time, to ‘let the heroes do their job’.

 _“It is not a job,”_ she’d spat. _“It is a duty, one we should all share if we are to defeat this evil, no?”_

Linguini hadn’t managed to argue but Colette had still relented, and all that Remy cared about right now was that they were both safe.

Remy heard the ring of a bell and glanced through the small window into the kitchen below, seeing Colette point to her watch. “ _Bon appetit_ ,” he said as the rats began sniffing at the meal. The youngest stuffed his mouth full immediately, and Remy’s heart lifted as the mother scolded him and told him they had come here to _taste_ as much as to eat. 

He scampered down to the kitchen, nose twitching as the aroma of the soup hit him. It needed a few more onions and a touch of thyme, which he added as soon as he’d washed his paws and put on his chef’s hat. He turned the soup down to a simmer, moved to drizzle some sauce from the pan on the next burner onto the outgoing plates, and froze as the stench first hit his nose.

Colette snatched the wooden spoon from his paws before he ruined the plating. “What, do you not like the sauce?”

She looked sceptical, and Remy knew why—she’d made the same dish plenty of times before and they’d both tasted it tonight—but it _wasn’t_ the sauce. Whatever that smell was…. He wrinkled his nose and shook his head, running off to scale the ladder and peek through the window in the swinging door that led to the dining area. Nothing looked out of the ordinary there, but the scent—

The doors swung open as Linguini burst through the middle, skating backwards as he balanced one of their larger platters full of dirty dishes. Remy somersaulted over the railing and clung to it with his paws, trying to get a better grip. Linguini, completely oblivious, dropped the dishes by the sink before skating back to where the outgoing plates sat. The window was empty, and he looked at Colette before turning back to the door as her eyes shifted to it. 

His eyes went wide, and he quickly lifted Remy off the edge of the platform and sat him on the counter again. “Sorry, little chef,” he said. “I didn’t know you were up there.”

Remy’s nose twitched again; neither of the humans gave any sign that they could smell the strange stench. Linguini’s hand still rested on the counter, so Remy scurried up his arm and climbed onto his head for a better vantage point. Linguini was used enough to this occurrence that he didn’t react other than to look at Colette and ask if she needed another set of hands in the kitchen for a while, but she shook her head. 

“He’s been acting strange since he came down,” she said with a nod at Remy, even though that wasn’t quite true. “You talk to him. I have to finish this.”

“What’s up, little chef? Did you fi—whoa!” Linguini lurched into motion as Remy tugged on the appropriate curls and began steering him toward the back door. He paused long enough at the pantry to assure himself it wasn’t simply spoiling food, but he was well acquainted with what that smelled like and this wasn’t it. 

Linguini opened the back door without Remy’s prompting, and the scent wafted in again, stronger than before. He hadn’t noticed it when he’d been up with the other rats, and there wasn’t enough of a breeze to carry it away, which meant—

There was a loud crash, and shrieks erupted from the dining area. Linguini turned and skated to the door with enough force that Remy was nearly thrown off, but he clutched at the locks of hair and managed to crouch down into the boy’s curls as they swept into the main part of the restaurant. 

Remy stiffened on instinct when he saw the cat-boy climbing to his feet before logic asserted that it was the infamous Chat Noir. Judging by the shattered glass, he’d come through the front window and had slammed into the nearest table. Remy glimpsed a giant through the empty window frame, with a mask and gear he’d last seen on the old woman above whom their colony had lived before the forced relocation, and he could suddenly _see_ her spewing the deadly gas everywhere—

The terrifying memory shattered as his world shifted. Linguini was on the move, shouting to be heard above the din and ushering people out of the restaurant through the kitchen. If anyone spotted Remy, no one gave him a second look.

Remy saw a wave from Emile on one of Linguini’s trips through the kitchen and risked raising a paw in acknowledgement; the rats had evacuated. That was no surprise. He should be evacuating himself.

“You need to go, too, Colette!” Linguini insisted when she didn’t follow the last of the customers. The crashes from the dining area grew louder, and Remy imagined toppled tables and shattered dishes. 

Colette had armed herself with carving knives and now shook her head. “No. This is our restaurant. We should fight for it, help them.”

Linguini glanced at the doors separating the kitchen from the dining area. “But if they haven’t left already, doesn’t that mean that whoever they’re fighting wants something from here?”

“Then all the more reason to make it clear they won’t be getting it,” Colette said firmly.

The time for arguments had passed, and Linguini knew it. He gulped and grabbed a ladle as she strode past him and went through the doors. When he realized what he held, Linguini dropped it and picked up a carving fork. His free hand drifted up to his head and picked up Remy. Linguini set him down on the shelf. He looked nervous, but Remy didn’t move, and Linguini frowned. “Aren’t you going to run, little chef?”

Remy shook his head. 

“But it’s dangerous out there!” Linguini flung a hand toward the door. Remy couldn’t make out the narrative except when it rose to shouts, but he gathered that Chat Noir had been joined by Ladybug and that neither was happy Colette had gone out.

Remy shrugged. 

“But…you’re sure you want to go out there?”

Remy nodded.

“Okay,” Linguini said as he lifted Remy back up to his perch. “I’ll trust you on this.” He had a white-knuckled grip on the carving fork, but when he was sure Remy was ready, he skated through the doors.

-|-

Adrien risked a glance behind him when he heard the kitchen doors swish open again. It was the waiter who had had the sense to clear out the customers when they’d crashed onto the scene, although the fact that he was still here must make him more than a waiter. Adrien put it out of his mind for now; he had to focus on the fight, and it was his job to distract L’Exterminateur while Ladybug came up with a plan.

Distracting him became instantly more difficult when L’Exterminateur spotted the waiter. He snarled behind his gas mask, and Adrien used his staff to vault over to the boy and grab him. They still weren’t sure what L’Exterminateur’s gas _did_. The canister of gas was marked as poisonous, which was why they’d nicknamed him L’Exterminateur when he hadn’t announced his name himself, but Adrien wasn’t sure that L’Exterminateur would gain anything from people’s deaths. Timebreaker had harvested people’s energy. Killing for the sake of killing seemed…cruel, considering Hawk Moth usually preyed upon righteous anger or desolation in his victims.

Besides, he and Ladybug had seen L’Exterminateur spray his gas before. It had been coloured a sickly green and reeked of rotten eggs—at least to him—which, as far as he was concerned, wasn’t advantageous if the point _was_ killing. That was why they had been able to avoid running headlong into it and had, so far, managed to avoid whatever the lethal dose was. L’Exterminateur wasn’t dressed in a HAZMAT suit or anything of the sort, either; it looked more like an apron, which didn’t help them _at all_. Ladybug said L’Exterminateur wanted to scare people, to frighten his victims to make his point, but he had seemed rather single-minded, even for an akuma victim. 

Of course, _here_ was a clue, too. Ladybug had snatched up the knife-wielding chef and was questioning her as much to get information as to distract her from rushing in and getting hurt, but Adrien had no idea what she’d learned. 

Adrien turned to the waiter as they landed on the opposite side of the room from Ladybug and the chef. He’d seen L’Exterminateur swivel to follow them, which meant Adrien was right in thinking his true target hadn’t been this restaurant; it had been this boy. “Is there anyone who might have a grudge against you?” Adrien asked quickly.

The boy gaped at him.

Adrien noticed a carving fork gripped in the boy’s right hand and tore it away from him, ramming it into a nearby table before the boy hurt himself. He grabbed the boy’s wrist and retreated again, landing this time by the broken window. “Let me try that again. I’m Chat Noir. Who are you and do you know anyone who might paw-sibly want to target you?”

The boy continued to stare at him but finally gave something that might have been a shaky nod. That, or he was quickly checking to make sure the roof didn’t come down on top of them, which didn’t seem likely.

Adrien waited for an explanation but had to snatch the boy and get him outside before he had a chance to hear it. He extended his staff and set the two of them on the roof before retracting it again. He wished he could be convinced they were safe up here, but they didn’t know what else L’Exterminateur might have up his sleeve. Hopefully nothing, but Adrien wasn’t about to bet on that.

The boy was still staring at him in a sort of dumbfounded awe. Adrien stepped back, hoping that might make him feel more comfortable. “Anything you can tell us is helpful,” Adrien assured the boy, “no matter how mew-niscule it might seem.”

The boy blinked and finally seemed to recover his wits. He smiled and let out a nervous laugh. “S-sorry,” he said, “you just weren’t…. I guess out of everything, I never expected this.”

Adrien raised an eyebrow. “But you were expecting something to happen? Or thinking it might?”

The boy shrugged. “Not really. I don’t know who’d want to target me. No one has since Gusteau’s closed, and everyone loves the food here.”

 _Gusteau_. The name rang a bell; Adrien had eaten at his restaurant a few times, back when it had had five stars and wasn’t overrun by rats. “You’re Gusteau’s son,” he realized.

“Alfredo Linguini, co-owner of La Ratatouille,” the boy confirmed. “But I still don’t—” His head jerked up abruptly. His mouth formed an ‘o’ of surprise, and then he said, “Skinner. Chef Skinner. He might be after the little chef again.”

“Who—?” Adrien didn’t need to finish, because even as he asked the question, Linguini reached up and pulled a _rat_ down from his hair. This time, it was Adrien’s turn to stare. 

“He’s a really good cook,” Linguini insisted, “and you know Gusteau’s motto. Dad’s, I mean. Anyone can cook. Even him.”

Adrien decided not to ask. It was more important to focus on their current situation. He heard Ladybug use her Lucky Charm and hoped she got something useful, hoped that she was able to use it while he was up here, not being the distraction he was supposed to be. But Linguini had information, even if he also had a rat that he for some reason thought could cook and therefore was the target of this entire thing. “And this Chef Skinner—?”

“Realized his talent,” Linguini said, nodding at the rat, “and tried to expose me for letting the little chef cook.”

None of this had been in the papers, of course. All Adrien could remember was something about the health inspector checking on the place and finding rats, and that had been the end of the Gusteau era—after its surprising recovery, something which had been attributed to the boy in front of him. Now, Adrien wondered if it was really because of the rat. It sounded crazy, but considering he routinely transformed into a superhero to save Paris, he knew crazy didn’t mean impossible. Since he’d met Plagg and become Chat Noir, nothing seemed im-paw-sible anymore.

But from what Linguini was saying, L’Exterminateur’s guise suddenly made a _lot_ more sense, and Adrien would be a fool to deny what now seemed like an obvious connection.

“We need to get you somewhere safe,” Adrien said, even though he meant _he_ needed to get them somewhere safe—but still somewhere close, so he could get back in time to help Ladybug. She had less than five minutes before she transformed back, and he didn’t plan on being away for longer than he had to.

Linguini shook his head. “No, Colette’s right. We can help.”

Colette must be his knife-wielding co-owner. “It’s too dangerous for you,” Adrien said. “You can’t—” He stopped and stared. The ‘little chef’ had run up Linguini’s arm, climbed back onto his head, and tugged on his curls. And Linguini _moved_ , jerking like he was a marionette.

Except the boy was smiling, and his movements seemed to get smoother as he skated to back to the edge of the roof and began to climb over the side. When Adrien’s body caught up with his brain, he rushed to help him back up. Linguini stood on a ledge set with tiny tables and seemed confident despite his precarious position. When Adrien offered his hand, the boy shook his head. “The little chef agrees. You need our help to stop this.”

They didn’t need his help; they needed him not to get himself killed.

Linguini jumped for the canopy before Adrien could stop him, falling through it as much as sliding off it, and he ended up on the cobblestone a few seconds before Adrien landed.

It was a few seconds too long.

L’Exterminateur had been waiting for them, and Adrien only had a chance to glimpse the frozen look of terror on Ladybug’s face before the gas enveloped him.

-|-

 _It paralyzes you._ Marinette only wished she knew for how long. The gas took effect quickly, too fast for her to do more than open her mouth to shout a warning to Colette as the words froze in her throat. She couldn’t even move her eyes, let alone blink or close her mouth. 

_But I can still breathe._ Her lungs weren’t paralyzed, and her diaphragm still moved readily enough, even though her vocal chords refused to vibrate. That meant the paralysis wasn’t complete, and she hoped it meant it would wear off sooner rather than later. She’d never heard of a gas that induced selective paralysis, but then again, Hawk Moth didn’t need something to have a basis in reality before he created it.

And, come to think of it, it was like she had been paused—although from what she’d understood, no one who had been paused by Lady WiFi had been aware of it at the time.

But it still wasn’t good, considering L’Exterminateur was more likely to go for her Miraculous than her mask.

Also unlike Lady WiFi, she had already used Lucky Charm.

Not that she had any idea how she was going to use a ball of yarn when she couldn’t even move. Why couldn’t she have gotten a gas mask so that she could keep fighting? 

At least she’d had some experience with this sort of thing, though. She knew panicking would get her nowhere, but she wasn’t sure how well the chef was taking it. Marinette could only see Colette from the corner of her eye, frozen in the act of throwing one of her knives, and she still looked murderous. The young woman had not been happy when Marinette had tried to convince her not to join the fight. She’d even called out Marinette on her age; she’d still gotten it wrong, of course, but she’d been right in thinking that she was older than Marinette, and she’d tried to use it as a reason that she should be here.

Marinette hadn’t had time to argue with her, not with Chat Noir trying to get the waiter to safety. She’d needed to distract L’Exterminateur before he had a chance to use his gas on them. She had, briefly, and had even realized that spinning her yo-yo fast enough would let it act as a fan and keep the gas away, but the moment she’d stopped to use Lucky Charm before things got more out of hand….

It didn’t matter now; the yarn had already dropped from her motionless hands and rolled away, beginning to unravel. It was just as well Chat Noir hadn’t been here when she’d gotten it; he’d be frozen, too, probably with a terrible pun on his tongue.

Her earrings beeped once, and Marinette saw the waiter tumble from the rooftop.

L’Exterimateur had been waiting, apparently expecting the young man to come back, and she saw him raise the canister of paralytic gas.

Chat Noir hit the street, and the world turned green.

A shadow darted right, out of her view, and Marinette wondered if she’d imagined it. She could still see the shadowy form of L’Exterminateur, slowly becoming clearer as the gas dispersed, but—

No, she’d been right. The waiter was gone. But how? She’d seen him before the gas had hit; he shouldn’t have had time to go anywhere. Judging by how quickly it had hit her, he shouldn’t have had time to react. Not if he hadn’t known L’Exerminateur would be _right there_ , waiting for him.

A horrible thought struck Marinette, and she suddenly wondered if _this_ is what the gas did to its intended victim.

A general paralytic to everyone who got in the way and complete extermination for the target.

 _It can’t be that._ Hawk Moth’s power had never done something like that before. There was no reason to expect it would now.

Except that the power Hawk Moth granted his victims was almost always new and variable, seemingly only limited by his imagination, and L’Exterminateur was examining the street where the waiter had been as if satisfied by his handiwork.

Marinette closed her eyes and then realized what had happened and opened them again. The gas was wearing off? She closed her mouth, wishing it weren’t so dry, and focused on trying to coax her arms to bend, her fingers to move, anything. If she could just—

“ _Linguini_!” roared L’Exterminateur, spinning back to face her. “Where is he?” he demanded as he advanced on them. “Where did he go?” This was the first time she’d heard him speak, and his voice—filtered as it was through the mask—made her skin crawl. But at least the waiter was safe.

If he was just a waiter, which she was sincerely beginning to doubt.

“Away from you,” Colette spat in answer.

L’Exterminateur growled and strode up to her. Marinette managed to turn her head to follow him. Her body felt numb; she should have collapsed when the gas hit. Except that this was magic, and it didn’t follow ordinary rules. It had let her live, and it had let her remain where she could watch—what? Some sort of show? And why? Was fear the driving factor after all? She’d thought as much at first, but now she wasn’t so sure.

This gas froze people where they stood, leaving them perfectly healthy but unable to move, unable to look away or blink. It would have been much more terrifying if she’d found herself struggling to breathe instead of just struggling to move, and watching others collapse the moment the gas hit them would be more frightening than simply seeing them stop in their tracks. No one would have wanted to get close enough to find out if any fallen people were dead, and fear of the unknown could be more terrifying than the truth. But instead, this gas made people into an unwilling captive audience.

She might not know what the show was, but she had a feeling Colette did, and Linguini was obviously involved. But she didn’t need to know to stop L’Exterminateur. She just needed to figure out where the akuma was hiding, wait for the rest of the effects of the gas to wear off, use her Lucky Charm in a brilliant way she had yet to devise, relieve L’Exterminateur of whatever object held the akuma, and then free and purify the akuma. 

Her earrings beeped a second time. She had three minutes.

Assuming L’Exterminateur didn’t just decide to steal her Miraculous first.

-|-

Linguini felt his body moving even before his eyes caught up with his brain and he realized Chef Skinner was there—because it had to be Gusteau’s former sous-chef turned head chef if he was after the little chef. The man’s features were completely obscured by the gas mask, except for his ears which stuck out like Chef Skinner’s did, so it was still the most likely possibility even considering Gas Mask Guy stood closer to seven feet than four.

The little chef didn’t give Linguini any time to think, though. He’d hardly hit the ground before he was climbing to his feet again, skating away from the green cloud that spewed from the raised nozzle aimed where he’d been a split second earlier. He had never been more thankful to be wearing roller skates; he was fairly certain he wouldn’t be ahead of the gas if he weren’t, even with the little chef controlling his reflexes.

His body jerked down the back alley, twisted to maintain its balance, and quickly regained its forward momentum despite weaving around debris that looked leftover from an earlier fight.

Sometimes, it felt like he was a passenger in his own body when the little chef controlled him like this, but he trusted the rat with his life. He’d certainly been given no reason not to. And the fact that the little chef could to do this and that they worked so well together surely meant things were supposed to be this way.

Colette might roll her eyes when he talked like this, but she didn’t dispute the little chef’s cooking ability and seemed to accept them both and their strange partnership.

“Where are we going, little chef?” Linguini asked, but then his body took a hard right, and he knew the answer. He should have known the little chef wasn’t going to run from this, not if he had refused to leave with the others earlier. 

As they reached the kitchen entrance of the restaurant, Linguini felt the now-familiar loosening of tension in his muscles that meant the little chef had surrendered control. Linguini stumbled up the step and tried to ease his way inside quietly.

Instead, he ended up jumping two feet in the air when the dishes that had been precariously balanced on the counter fell to the floor and shattered. He dove for the walk-in cooler, tumbling over the crate of oranges and landing on the artichokes. He tried to find a hiding spot behind the milk bottles, but—

“I smell a rat, Linguini! You can’t hide from me!”

It was Skinner’s voice. He’d know it anywhere, even distorted as it was. “You have to get out of here, little chef,” he said urgently as he heard the bang of the swinging kitchen door colliding with the countertop. “He’s after you, not me.” The rat didn’t move, so Linguini lifted him down and held him in his palm. “ _Please_. He’ll kill you.”

The little chef shook his head.

“No, he will. He’s not thinking straight right now, and that makes him even more dangerous.” In a quieter voice, Linguini added, “The people who are changed like that are _always_ dangerous. You need to go.”

The rat hesitated and then finally nodded before scampering down Linguini and scurrying out of sight.

“How about we look behind door number one?” Skinner sneered, and the door to the cooler opened. Linguini knew he wasn’t out of sight and tried to curl in on himself, but he was too awkward and lanky, and Skinner had an iron grip on his upper arm a moment later. “Let’s get you out to our little audience.”

It looked like Linguini had been dragged onto the scene of a pantomime gone wrong. The shell of the restaurant looked all right, but it was full of broken dishes, toppled chairs, and upended tables. Food coated more than one wall, the normally-pristine tablecloths were torn and stained, and Colette had one foot in a puddle of soup. He could see the strain in her face, her concentration, but she still held her right hand over her head, poised as if throwing something, and her left had a white-knuckle grip on the second kitchen knife.

The first, Linguini noticed as he followed what would have been its trajectory, had embedded itself into the wood of the front door.

A beep pierced the silence, and Linguini’s head swung around to look at Ladybug. She was similarly frozen, arms outstretched as if to catch something, except her fingers had curled into fists. As he watched, she flexed her fingers—but with a painful slowness that made him realize he wasn’t imagining things. The fact that Chat Noir was still crouched in the street even though he was looking this way seemed to confirm it; they could hardly move, if they could move at all.

“I only have two minutes.” The whisper came from Ladybug. “If you see _anything_ that might represent L’Exterminateur, you have to destroy it.”

Linguini blinked, realized she was talking about Skinner, and looked at him uncertainly. Skinner had yet to release him, but being in close quarters with him didn’t give Linguini any special insight. It just served to make him more nervous. The chef’s hat was signature, of course, and the coat and apron and even the neckerchief, and if Ladybug was calling him L’Exterminateur, that would explain the gas mask and the rest of his gear, but….

 _Come on, Linguini. You’ve read the Ladyblog. You know what she’s looking for. Something small, something significant, maybe something sentimental._ But the former chef was the last person Linguini thought of as sentimental; he thought even Horst might have more sentiment in him than Skinner. 

Maybe.

Still, he couldn’t see anything. He shrugged helplessly, trying to convey an apology to Ladybug without drawing more attention to her, and Skinner pushed him away, slightly toward Colette but mostly between her and Ladybug, though he was still in full view of Chat Noir.

“You will all see him for what he is!” Skinner screeched, and then the gas filled the room again, and Linguini found himself frozen. He wanted to cough and choke, or at least wrinkle his nose and wipe the tears from his stinging eyes, but he couldn’t. His brain was telling his hand to move, but it stubbornly refused to leave his side.

It was terrifying. He felt like he was trapped in his own body. It wasn’t like when the little chef steered him around, because that was okay, he was fine with that, and if he tried to move, he could—at least until the little chef corrected his course. But that was fine; the little chef could cook, and between him and Colette, Linguini had actually picked up a few things, but this? This just felt wrong, nothing like his relationship with the talented rat. This wasn’t a willing partnership; this was a prison.

“He is a fraud!” Skinner roared. “He is colluding with that _rat_!” Two swift steps brought Skinner up to him, and Linguini felt hands raking through his hair. “Where is it? _Where is it_?”

Linguini wanted to wince at the rising pitch of Skinner’s voice, but he couldn’t. At least Skinner had realized that meant he couldn’t answer any questions, either. The man began tearing apart the room, throwing tables as easily as chairs, and at one point he tossed a ball of yarn toward the kitchen. Linguini saw Ladybug’s eyes track the movement, and he wondered if he could really read the desperation in her expression or if he was just imagining it.

Skinner stalked off to search the kitchen, and Linguini’s heart sank. He could imagine the damage Skinner was doing right now. The last crash had sounded particularly expensive, and he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to find enough investors to pitch in to fix the damage. _La Ratatouille_ had excellent reviews, but an attack like this might make people wary, and he knew Anton Ego couldn’t put any more toward the restaurant. Ladybug’s magic was supposed to be able to fix damage, but what if that only worked if they got out of this successfully?

“Ladybug,” Chat Noir called, “there’s a newspaper clipping. Tucked up his right sleeve. I saw it when he gassed me.”

Ladybug didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer, more like. Maybe Chat Noir hadn’t gotten a second dose of gas like Ladybug and Colette had. But what were the chances it would wear off in time for him to help before Skinner realized what had happened and just used his gas to paralyze him all over again?

There was another beep, and Linguini saw a spot disappear from Ladybug’s earrings. There was only one left. One spot, one minute. The Ladyblog hadn’t been wrong about that, either. 

He had always thought Ladybug and Chat Noir could do anything, but this seemed to prove they had limitations after all, even if they were superheroes. He didn’t respect them less for it; actually, he respected them more. Because aside from the magic they used, they were people like him. Or at least people like Colette, who were willing to fight for the safety of their city and were quite good at it. Unlike him, who just made a mess of things.

But at least the little chef had gotten away.

-|-

Remy couldn’t see what was happening, but he could hear it; Chef Skinner was not exactly quiet, and it sounded like he was tearing apart the dining area. Remy knew another dose of gas had been released, though, so he didn’t dare get too close until he was sure it had dispersed. It would take a lot less to affect him than it did to affect the humans. 

But when Skinner came through to the kitchen to continue his search, Remy knew he couldn’t stay. He crouched behind the wheel of a cart, judging the ever-shortening swings of the door. He seemed able to breathe the air brought through without ill effect, so when Skinner’s back was turned, Remy darted into the next room.

Three figures stood frozen in the middle of a disaster zone. He scrabbled up the side of a table to be sure and could just make out a dark blur that was Chat Noir, still in the street and struggling to straighten. Remy was far from an expert on human biology, but he could recognize the smell of sweat and strain easily enough, even when mixed with a sort of gritty determination he had begun to associate with Colette. But what worried him most was the scent of fear.

Remy dropped to the floor again, trying to figure out how best to help. If Linguini couldn’t move now, he would be no more successful with Remy trying to steer him. And—

“Ladybug, there’s a newspaper clipping. Tucked up his right sleeve. I saw it when he gassed me.”

A newspaper clipping. Something important, no doubt, or Chat Noir wouldn’t have mentioned it. But from what Remy could see, Ladybug couldn’t move any more easily than Linguini or Colette. He might be able to fetch it, though. It would be far from the first time he’d run up a human’s leg, and it certainly wouldn’t be the first time he’d nicked something from a human who was trying to exterminate him.

He usually preferred to pilfer something more edible than newspaper, though.

Remy sat up on his hind legs and looked around. He’d need a plan to get this scrap of newspaper from Skinner, especially when he had a seemingly never-ending supply of paralytic gas at his disposal. Hadn’t he come past a—?

A shrill beep pierced the silence of the dining area. The scent of fear spiked, accompanied by quicker heartbeats and shallower breaths. Remy knew he had to act quickly, so he was relieved when he spotted the ball of black-and-red yarn. This would be easier with Emile at his side—he could use a second pair of paws—but he could still make this work.

Remy nudged the ball to judge its weight before rolling it over to an overturned barstool. He had to pick it up to wedge it between the supports and the bottom of the seat, but it would be able to spin freely while he ran, and it wouldn’t take him long to come back to tie off the other end to the table leg when he finished. With that in mind, he took the end of yarn in his mouth, tried to imagine it tasted better than it did, and began to run.

He scurried between chair legs, around table legs, through chair backs and even around the legs of his friends, now human statues, though he left Ladybug’s ankles free. He tied his end of the yarn to a table leg when he finally felt it go slack before slipping back over to the bar. He tugged on the yarn, pulling it taut before tying it off. 

He’d finished just in time. Skinner burst through the kitchen doors, angrily making his way toward Linguini. He stepped over the first string and the second, but it was hardly five inches off the ground and he didn’t notice it until the toe of his shoe caught on the third string in Remy’s crisscrossing maze. He tried to right himself, ended up tangling his second foot, and came crashing to the ground. 

Remy zipped in and plucked the newspaper from Skinner’s sleeve before he could free his arms. After a glance at Linguini, Remy decided he wouldn’t be able to take the newspaper, so he instead began to take it to Chat Noir. The hero’s eyes were wide—had been since his first squawk of surprise at Remy’s actions—but now he shook his head. “Tear it up!”

Remy blinked but did so, ripping it in half. A butterfly burst from the tear, rippling with power and wrongness, and he could only stare. A split second later, Ladybug’s yo-yo whizzed past the tip of his nose to catch it. He heard a series of quick beeps and then Ladybug was running for the kitchen, leaving nothing but a white butterfly in her wake. Remy started after her, not sure what was wrong, but then Linguini was crouching in front of him, smiling broadly. “You were _brilliant_ , little chef!”

Remy shrugged and moved to the side, wondering if he’d be able to get past Skinner as easily as Ladybug had. He was easily recognizable now, his diminutive self again with no sign of the gas mask or canister. His chef’s outfit was gone as well, replaced with clothes not unlike those he’d been wearing when Remy had last seen him. He started to sit up, and as Remy watched, the yarn he’d used exploded in a burst of energy which streaked across the bistro and righted furniture, cleaned cloths, repaired plates, replaced food, and straightened place settings. 

The customers didn’t return, but Remy heard Linguini and Colette both breathe sighs of relief. 

“What—?” That was Skinner, and Remy immediately darted back to Linguini for cover, who picked him up and hid him in cupped hands. “What happened?”

“I’d best explain outside,” replied Chat Noir, who had had to come in through the front door now that the window glass had been restored. “Come with me, and I’ll help you on your way.” He offered Skinner a hand up, and the dazed former chef took it.

Remy did not miss the wink Chat Noir threw over his shoulder as he left with Skinner.

He also did not miss what would have otherwise been the mysterious delivery of a platter of exquisite cheeses and fruit and a box of assorted baked goods, delivered the next day and simply addressed to _the Little Chef_ , and waved as Chat Noir and Ladybug dropped it off. He was rather surprised that there was no camembert on the platter—foul-smelling though some found it, the cheese had a unique taste—but he didn’t mind the two heroes keeping their secrets. He had his own, after all, and even if two more people had learned of his involvement here at _La Ratatouille_ , he knew from their actions that they weren’t about to call the health inspector on him.

And now he had more stories to tell.


End file.
